29. PAIGE
TWENTY-NINE
PAIGE
Fucking hell.
I think I’ll die in this room. Death from hiding. A cowardly stripper and her gecko on the luxury thread-count sheets. But I can’t leave this room until I’m sure Linc’s left for work.
The art of avoidance is a discomfort I know well.
My back sinks into the mattress and I stare up at the ceiling, trying to trick my body into calming down as the fucked carousel playing through my brain starts back up. The whiplash as the words hit me again.
“Because I raped you.”
Nothing—not even the event itself—was as devastating as the deep agony on his face as he said that. The haunted—absolutely wrecked—glaze in his hazel eyes. His unshakeable belief intensified the devastation.
It rocked me to my core, and the certainty of his expression only lit one thing inside of me.
Rage.
I don’t know why, but it was the only emotion that registered, and the anger still finds me now, tightening my fists at my sides.
He seemed . . . so sure.
A shiver runs down my spine as a lump settles in my throat.
After years of speculation, I had my own thoughts and theories as to why Linc left—why he left me.
But I could have never imagined this might be it.
If that’s what he believes—if that’s what he truly thinks happened . . .
I feel a trickle of moisture drip down my cheek and I sniff, realizing I’m crying. Again.
I wipe my eyes, groaning. My own inability to cope always makes things worse. I’m not going to get anywhere by wondering to the fucking walls about it.
As I’ve learned from my brief but oh-so-needed hug from Ellis last night, there’s a chance I’m terribly lonely. There’s a chance I’m completely fucking lost.
But . . . the other thing I felt in our embrace was —maybe there’s a chance Ellis might forgive me. Maybe not right away. But . . . maybe.
And in Linc’s arms last night, before he dropped the bomb on me, I felt it too.
Like, maybe we can all get back on track.
Gram always believed we would—even at the end, she’d always tell me, “It’s just because so much time has passed. Sometimes our minds confuse bravery and fear, Paigey May. And it’s easy to do because the things that require bravery often terrify us.”
The thought of her voice soothes me and I sigh, my shoulders loosening with some relief. I haven’t heard her as much. Though, my head barely feels attached to my body at this point.
My phone buzzes, bringing me back to the room, but I ignore the call. I’m certain it’s Jackson. He’s been calling all fucking day.
I know I need to talk to them. Honestly, I should talk to them soon. Ellis knocked on the door earlier to tell me he moved my car up to the driveway and even from here, I swear I can hear the money banging around in the trunk like the drums from fucking Jumanji.
But I’ve decided to give myself the day. Just a day .
A moment passes and I stare at the ceiling, wondering if they’re the same in every room. The ceiling gets the aerial view. The haunted thoughts on each side of the pillow. It probably even sees the shit you stash under the bed with the monsters.
Is this what he’s looked at the last four years while he’s fallen asleep?
And the years before that . . .
“Where did he go?”
My mind floats to Ellis’s response, “Nope. Not touchin’ that,” and a sharp inhale pulls through my chest.
Where Linc went after our shared horror was a hard limit for Ellis.
Why?
If Linc had moved to Australia to live among the koalas or decided to film ant hills deep in the valley for a couple of years —what’s with the secrecy?
Unless he was with someone ?
No. My mind rejects it right along with his hypothetical, big-titted, Malibu bitch.
But then why?
Ugh. I swear I’m burning calories with the hole my mind is running through the floors of my skull. Groaning, I sit up. After a breath, I break my rule and look at my phone, seeing ten missed calls. No voicemails. Seven texts.
All of them say “call me” except for the last ones.
Jackson
I’m sorry, Blue.
Rio
Any tattooed visitors last night? I knew that boy wasn’t gay!
What?
It takes my mind a few seconds to figure out what the hell she’s talking about, then it dawns on me —Linc?
Right. Linc works at The Window.
But why would she think he’s gay?
God, my head is pounding with all the new boiling over.
In need of a distraction, I ignore Rio’s message for the moment and instead focus on Jackson’s uncharacteristically apologetic message. It surprises me at first, but then I realize . . .
He knows they fucked up.
That’s got to be it. After reviewing the footage, they must have seen the crystal clear evidence of an attempted sexual assault —not a security guard in sight— and now they’re trying to “make nice” before I “make noise.” Something I have no intention of doing, regardless.
But if they watched the footage, that also means they saw me take the money. Right?
Maybe not . . .
Either way, the creeps were friends of Beck’s, so there’s no doubt he at least knows about it.
I pin my lip between my teeth, my eyes flicking to the time on my phone, seeing that it’s six. That’s usually call-time for the guards and out here, we’re an hour away when the traffic is perfect —which happens right along with unicorn sightings.
I take a breath and stand up. I should run to the store, grab some food. I think I’ve earned some carbs. Maybe a box of wine. I can drink on the fancy sheets.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Jackson back, resume reality.
I text Rio back three question marks, mostly as a proof of life, but also kind of hoping she’ll enlighten me a bit.
My socks press against the floor gingerly. I’m not sure if Ellis is home, but I just want to go to the market and come back.
I also have a bone to pick with Teddy boy at the bottom of the mountain.
I make it to the kitchen, turning toward the entry hall when I hear, “Your sneaky walk is reminiscent of a noodle starting to boil.”
I yelp but stop midstep, unable to not snort a laugh and turn around, seeing Ellis sitting in one of the bar chairs at the counter.
“That is—” I rasp with a shake of my head. But then take what feels like the first deep breath all day, before I say, “So fucking specific.”
The emerald glow to his eyes is closer to what I remember—less muted than last night—as he smirks. “Evidence that I’ve consistently reached a point of hunger where I watch my food cook.”
I breathe another laugh through a nod. “I was—uh . . . I was gonna go get some food, actually. From the—store. Do you . . . do you want anything from . . . the store?” His chin dips further, the longer it takes me to sputter through the sentence.
“Wow.” He closes his laptop. “That was painful.”
I cringe. Yes. Yes it was. But I can’t help it.
This is so fucking crazy.
Ellis and Linc were the only two people aside from Gram that required zero social battery, and now it feels like a second with either one of them drains me instantly.
Tomorrow. I need to call Jackson. And I need to figure out a game plan for where I’m going to go.
“I’ve got shit for grilled cheese,” he offers with a lift of his shoulder.
My mouth twitches, wanting to smile but still fighting it for some reason. I squint my eyes in his direction. “You don’t know how to make grilled cheese.”
He volleys a glare back at me. “That was one time. And you know as well as I do that Crisco was a great fucking idea. It was just . . . poorly executed.”
I break, barking out a laugh. The cheesy fail of 2007.
A movie marathon night back in middle school where Ellis got a strong desire to prove to us he wasn’t a spoiled little rich boy by making us grilled cheese. And then burnt the ever-loving shit out of them.
After losing myself to the laughter, I shrug, telling him, “People don’t forget.”
He laughs this time. It’s a quote from Superbad. A stupid one, mostly made funny by our irrelevant and frequent use of the line.
“Pop a squat, Michaels. I’ll make you earn your keep. I have some questions . . .” he says, standing and rounding the counter, rummaging through the cabinets. But the tension that fell away with our easy conversation suddenly returns, and my spine straightens.
Ellis must notice because he stops before he opens the fridge. “Purely present questions,” he clarifies, and my breath still sticks in my throat before I swallow.
I’m not sure that’s much better.
Still, I walk back toward the kitchen. I don’t deserve the olive branch he’s extending, but I take it as I slide onto one of the other bar stools, sitting across from him while he opens the bread. “How long have you been working at The Window?”
My eyebrows pinch. I used to be a pro at spotting when Ellis was working an angle. But I have no earthly idea what that could possibly be—why that matters at all.
I clear my throat. “A year. I started right after Gram . . .”
He’s quiet for a second, buttering the bread, then his eyes flick up to me. “And the incident that happened last night . . . that’s the first time anything like that has ever happened there?”
I nod, swallowing again. “In my experience. Why?”
Ellis shakes his head with a long pause before he sighs and shrugs, laying the cheese on the bread. He seems to be lost in thought for the moment. My eyes drift absently, but they catch on the pile of yellow fruit tucked into a corner of the counter space next to the fridge.
He notices my sight line and twists around to see, but a strange combination—equal parts shock and solace— warms my chest.
It was him. He left the mug out in the ratty old hammock back at the house.
I have no idea why he left the mug outside, but those are lemons from Gram’s tree. I fucking know it. I just do. Ellis twists his chin back toward me, his eyes shining brilliantly from the wall-length windows behind me. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His face confirms my suspicions and the feeling tightens in my chest.
I’m so . . . fucking confused. I feel like all the blanks I’ve worked to fill in through all these years were all wrong.
I didn’t think Linc was even in California —at The Window.
Which reminds me . . .
“Can I ask you something?”
Ellis bends down and grabs a pan, his eyes halting with caution, and I quickly say, “Purely present,” parroting his earlier words.
He huffs a small laugh, then nods.
I take a breath. “Any thoughts on why my coworker thought Linc was gay?”
Ellis stops moving completely. Any nervous energy he was putting into redeeming his grilled cheese rankings just stops.
I see his Adam’s apple bob as the silence holds for a few more seconds. I’m suddenly terrified. I expected him to laugh or at least display some of the wild confusion I had when I read Rio’s text, but his palpable . . . something is making me regret asking.
Quickly he says, “Uhh—” then shakes his head. Rubbing the back of his neck, he adds, “He—uh . . . he does that sometimes.”
What?!
Linc’s played gay before? And Ellis knows about it?!
My estranged friend is still looking at me, but his even expression is only confusing me more. My eyes and nose scrunch —completely fucking lost— just before I exclaim, “Why?!”
Ellis shoves a hand through his hair, then leans one palm against the counter. His eyes study mine a moment more and I see caution take to his gaze before he shrugs. “He thinks it makes people feel . . . safer,” he says quietly, jaggedly, as his eyes drift down to the plates with the sandwiches.
Now the caution in his eyes makes sense. He knew his explanation was only going to give me more questions.
“This isn’t my business to tell,” he had told me last night. Right before he warned me not to touch Linc . . . which I did.
And Linc touched me too.
Goddammit. My brain feels like a swirled soft-serve, and I press my thumbs to my temples as the sizzle from the grilled cheese makes me flinch in my seat. My empty stomach and my hunger are twisting and shifting into nausea.
The sound of the freezer door closing pulls my eyes back up to Ellis as he then opens the cabinet just to the side, putting two shot glasses on the counter. “You know what goes great with grilled cheese?”
My eyes move to see . . .
Tequila.